snow day

Here is what happened this morning.

Woke up, sat up in bed. Deedie brought me a latte. It was later than it should be. Why?

School's delayed an hour, because of the snow.

Because of the what?

I put on my glasses and looked out the window. And THERE IT WAS. The whole world, overnight, had been covered with snow. It was still faintly falling as I sat there in bed looking at the morning. One boy off from school, the other enjoying an extra hour of goof-around time before the bus.

Each tree branch covered with soft white. Frost upon the windowpane. From outside, the soft scrape of the plow going down the street.

the dog was standing by the window looking out at the changed world.

It took about 20 minutes to find the boots and the snow-suits and the gloves and the hats for the various members of the family, including me, before everyone was suited up and ready. All those things stashed wherever they'd wound up last April when they were last used and we figured, we'd never see them again.

I found the scraper for the car, and got into my big big winter coat, so fluffy and huge, I feel like the fat lady from the circus. a big big scarf I got in rome, swirled around my face. My puffy blue gloves from L.L. Bean.

After boy number one was safely on his school bus, I put boy number two in the car, and we drove over to his friend's house. When we got there, there were three other ten years olds out in the street (this is really a dirt road) And when they saw us coming, they started to run toward our car. And they all slipped and fell on their asses, one two three. got back up again and started to run and slipped again. I stopped the car, and sean jumped out the door and he and his friends were slipping and sliding and throwing snow at each other. My friend Victoria, sean's friends' mom, came out and we stood there in the road talking for a while, watching the boys. they got down in the snow and started making snow angels: no kidding, actual snow angels. As the snow came down and gathered in our hair. Nobody else on Victoria's road. In the distance the frozen surface of the lake, now covered with snow, the green mountains all around us now covered with white. Snow on the phone wires, snow on the mailboxes, snow on the weather vane on top of the barn.

and victoria and I stood there and gave each other a big big hug, like we were the luckiest people in the world. she's a nurse, and at 9 AM she was just getting off the all-night shift. we looked at the boys and said something like, well. We live for this, don't we.

left sean there and drove to the Hyundai dealer, took a long time, because of course everything is in slow motion now. Everybody all goofy because the world is upside down. stopped in the general store for a coffee and the cashier said, ach the snow, I hate it, I hate it. I said, yeah, but it's pretty isn't it? she said, ach does it matter if it's pretty?

I know what she means. I know I will be sick to death of it by mid-january, and there are surely many ugly days ahead-- when it freezes, or rains, or slushes, when dirt from the road gets on the snow, when the limbs of the trees snap in two, when we lose power. Ach is right.

I like a warm beach as well as anybody. Honest I do. Some day I won't live here any more, and when that day comes I will spend many months of the year somewhere warm, like arizona, or somewhere.

But look: here comes the solstice. Up here it is getting dark now at 4 PM. There are poinsettias everywhere. Just yesterday bought a wreath from a neighbor with actual holly berries on it, berries she picked from her own holly, a wreath made from the trees in her own woods. I'd hung it on the door last night, and now there is cold white powder on each green needle.

And so I say this: yes it matters that it's pretty. Here we are in these dark days, and I am glad for the snow, and I am glad for this life. And very, very soon now, the days will begin to get longer again, and the light will return.

Merry Chirstmas everybody.

Talkin' 'Bout Shaft...SBL#178 Trivia Test

Test your 1970's Movie Trivia knowledge with the follwing Quiz to see if you are a "Sufferin' Bastard":

1. Who's the Black Private Dick that's a Sex Machine with all the chicks?

A. Jessie Jackson

B. Jimmie Walker

C. Donald Rumsfeld

D. John Shaft

Damn Right!

2. Who is the man that would risk his life for his brother man?

A. Jay-Z

B. Prime Minister Tony Blair

C. John Shaft

D. Micheal Richards

Can you dig it?

3. Who's the Cat that won't Cop out, when there's danger all about?

A. John Shaft

B. Pat Buchanon

C. George Jefferson

D. Bono

Riiight on!

4. They say that Shaft is a Baaaad __________.

A. Apple

B. Example

C. Attitude

D. 'Shut yo' mouth'

Hey, Im'talkin' 'bout Shaft.....

5. He's a complicated man, and no-one understands him but his ________.

A. Accountant

B. Analyst

C. Rev. Jessie Jackson

D. Woman

We can Dig it!

Well, how'd you score?

Celebrity Haiku:Holiday Edition, Volume 10

Photo and caption courtesy Everlasting Blort

I Know When You're Awake

I Know When You've Been Bad or Good

Kinda Creepy Id'nt It?

-Santa

During these hectic holidays, let us not forget the real reason for the Season....

Who's afraid of Edward Albee?

It had been a long time since I had seen Edward Albee, my old teacher, and as I waited for him at the bottom of the escalator at the Portland Jetport, I hoped we would recognize each other.

I shouldn’t have worried about that, though. As he descended the escalator, his eyes fell upon me, and his face crinkled into a smile.

“Ah,” he said, embracing me. “There you are.” It was as if it had been fifteen minutes, instead of fifteen years.

I bundled him into the car and drove him north toward Waterville, where he was scheduled to speak to the students the next afternoon, on “Improvisation and the Creative Mind.”

He’d been my teacher, back in 1986, when he produced a play of mine called “Big Baby.” This was when I lived in Baltimore and I was a student at Johns Hopkins. He was a terribly tough teacher, but I loved him. He seemed to know just how to turn a phrase on stage that opened up a character’s heart.

My play wasn’t very good. It was about a baby who, somehow, grows to be really, really big. By big, I mean, the size of a Buick. On stage, the baby—concealed inside a huge bassinet—growls and screams and throws bowling pins at his parents.

After the first performance, Albee sat down with me and asked the question for which I had no answer. “But why,” he asked, as if the question pained him. “Why is the baby so large?”

In the years since then, I’ve asked questions like this of my own students, and they’ve given me the same look that I gave Albee back then, the look that says, Why are you demanding so much of me? Why is the thing I’ve written not good enough?

Albee gave his lecture to a packed house at Colby the next day, and got a standing ovation. As he signed books at the podium, a young man came up to me. “Excuse me,” he said. “Jenny? I don’t suppose you remember me?”

Of course I remembered him. It was Nick Malick, class of 2004, one of my better students. He’d been a writer of short stories when I knew him, a man of promise and imagination.

“What have you been doing, Nickles?” I asked.

He smiled. “I’m a teacher now,” he said, proudly. “In New Hampshire. I came here with my students.”

For a teacher, there are few pleasures like the knowledge that someone you have taught is himself becoming a teacher. There really is a sense that a torch is getting passed, from hand to hand, down the generations.

As one of my children observed, later that day, “So for your student, Edward Albee was kind of like, his grand-teacher.”

I felt self conscious, though, in my old student’s presence, and for a moment I wasn’t sure what to say. I glanced for a moment over at the podium, where Edward was surrounded by his fans.

When I looked back at Nickles, he was gone.

I took Edward back to the airport the next morning, dropped him off at the check in for United.

Just before he headed into the terminal, Edward took me by the shoulders and smiled that elusive smile of his.

“We have done well,” he said. “You and I.” Then he kissed me on the cheek, turned his back, and was gone.

I thought about that moment all the way home, so grateful for everything the man had taught me over the years. I thought about my Baltimore days, about trying to become a writer, about that question I’d asked, and been asked, again and again since then: Why are you demanding so much of me?

And I thought about my old student Nickles, a teacher himself now, working with his students.

I hoped that someday, Nickles will take one of his students by the shoulder, and say what I should have said to him the day before.

“We have done well. You and I.”

Your Sufferin' Bastards Monthly Horoscope

Aries- March 21/ April 20-

You are meticulous and organized. A 'Can-Do' attitude this week gets you far. Yeah, I've got your 'can-do' attitude, right here: 'Can' I get a big glass of 'shut the fuck up' for my Aries friend over here?

Taurus-April 21/ May 21-

You are an effete intellectual. You put the 'Man' in 'Manicure'. It's time to take off your shirt and embrace your man-crush on Mark Foley. Oh yes, and financial opportunity arises on Friday.

Gemini- May 22/ June 21-

Special moments with a romantic partner are in store for you this week. The stars point to sizzling love matches and rekindling old flames. It's a damn lucky thing your wife is out of town on business. You go, Dog!

Cancer- June 22/ July 22-

You are ebulient and effervescent. You will go all racial with a friend at work a la Micheal Richards. Later in the week, you will beg the Rev. Jessie Jackson for forgiveness.

Leo- July 23/ August 23-

Suprising good news changes your plans this week. Follow your muse. This week, you will come up with an idea for a James Brown/Howard Dean Duet Album titled 'Yeeeeaahhh!!' Brilliant.

Virgo- August 24/September 22-

A pet will come into your life this week, even if you hadn't been considering buying or adopting one previously. On Saturday, you will drop Acid with Donald Rumsfeld and seriously consider becoming Liberatarian. Beware of cheese over the holidays.

Libra- September 23/ October 23-

Timing is everything this week. Blackmail may be in your future. It's about time to dig out that 'sex video' you made with Brittany Spears when you were both in High School. Money.

Scorpio- October 24/ November 22-

Hey, wasn't there an old Al Pacino movie named Scorpio. I don't know. I could be wrong. I'm kinda running out of jokes here. Uuuuhhh, oh yeah, call an old friend on Thursday. Yea, that's it.

Sagitarius- November 23/ December 21-

You will plan an excellent Holiday party, but at the last minute, Iraqi insurgents will totally ruin it. Damn terrorist bastards!

Capricorn- December 22/ January 20-

Hey, did you know Jesus was also a Capricorn? Pretty sweet, huh? Except no one worships you, you filthy Pagan bastard. Good fortune arrives Friday in the form of free beer.

Aquarius- January 21/February 18-

You will play the Handy-man at home this week. But, watch out. You will pinch you bottom lip in a folding ladder. God-Damn, that hurts!!! And by the way, it's 'Nu-Clear', not 'Nu-Cu-Ler', you dumb bastard.

Pisces- February 19/ March 20-

You will surf the net for Porn this week, but your wife will catch you. Why, oh why, can't you get it through your thick skull how to erase your 'History' button? Your old buddy K-Fed looks you up to see if he can crash at your place for a while. Two words: don't do it! Wait, that's three words. Two words would be 'Vanilla Ice'. Doooow!

Anyways, that's your Horoscope. Don't say we didn't warn you.

Geriatrics Uber Allies

You know, there's not much these days that does not make me feel kind of old, seeing that I'm 'pulling 40', but on some days more than others events present themselves as more profound, or germane, or something, as to how fucking old I've gotten to being these days. Case in point: I'm listenning to my favorite sports radio station out of Boston ( case in point: I'm listenning to Sports-Radio! Dude!!), when I hear that The Who, that's right, The Who is commencing their North American Tour at the TD Banknorth Garden sometime coming up this winter. Okay, for one thing, the building where the Celtics and the Bruins play is NOT the TD Banknorth Garden, nor is it the Fleet Center, or the Olive Garden Arena... it is the fucking Gaaaaaaahdin! for Christ's sake. Hallowed ground for Havlichek, Bird, Russell, Cousey, not to mention Orr, Esposito, Sanderson and Cheevers. Even if it's not the same building it'll always be the Garden to me. But I digress. Frequently. My point is that the Who, or at least the two decrepit surviving members who have not since croaked from overdoses, will be rocking the Garden, O2 tanks, hearing aids and all, this winter on their, 'Loud and Unrepentant' Tour, or something to that effect. Is there no shame? What's next? ..."That's right this years at the Skowhegan State Fair, free with your Midway admission, British Invasion Rockers, The Who, along with Herman and his Surviving Hermits and Gerry and his Pacemakers!! Don't miss it"! Won't get fooled again, my wrinkly ass!

Anyway, later in the day, I'm out at the mall with this teenager, who is showing me around a store called Hot Topic, a seemingly trendy shoppe for wannabe Goths, Dungeon-masters and Baggy-pants wearers who like Marilyn Manson et al. Anyway, bemusedly, I'm looking through all the 'Angst-a-phanalia', mostly all in black, when I spy a CD on the shelf. It is 'Dead Kennedys, Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables 25th Anniversary Edition'. Holy Crap, 25th Anniversary Edition! Man, back in the day I used to rock College Radio in Central Maine with those very Dulcer strains of the Dead Kennedys' wax. They were the all high holiest of Hardcore Punkers. They were the most controversial and most pertinent, we thought, band ever, completely obsene and completely caucophonous. To hear that my landmark album, with such hardcore standards as 'Riot', 'Winnebago Warriors', and California Uber Allies' was approaching a quarter century of existance was just depressing. I showed it to my young apprentice, and he was totally not impressed. He was too busy getting a free listen to Blink 182's newest CD. I felt totally irrelevent.

Anyway, I'm not sure what my point was, except maybe that proves my point. I do that a lot: ramble on, that is. Usually about the old days, when 'real' bands like the DK's or the Who still had something to say. In fact, they probably didn't, but there you have it. In either case, it reminds me of a song I wrote one time when I used to be in this band. It's called 'A Punk Looks at 30'. It made a lot more sense back when I was looking ahead to 30 instead of looking back at 30 as my halcyon days, but it still hits the spot. It goes a lil' somethin' like this:

When I was young, I was angry every day,
A lot of things were on my mind, I had such a lot to say,
Now the years have ground all the Punk out of my brain,
I just try to cruise along, never cut against the grain,
I used to be a punk, but I ain't no more.

When I was back in school, I was quite the Anarchist,
Always trying to break the rules, shaking my tiny fist,
Now I'm holding down a job and I let my hair grow long,
Can't even get mad enough to write a decent protest song, well,
I used to be a punk, but I ain't no more.

Didn't take me long to learn that the world was full of shit,
But I guess that after a while, you kinda get used to it,
I hardly even take the time to slam-dance anymore,
When I really think about it, I guess I was just a great big bore,
I used to be a punk, but I ain't no more.

Gabba Gabba Hey

BFC

Just forwarded to me from my Lovely and talented sister, George Carlin's 'New Rules for 2007'

New Rule: Stop giving me that pop-up ad for classmates.com! There's a reason you don't talk to people for 25 years. Because you don't particularly like them! Besides, I already know what the captain of the football team is doing these days--mowing my lawn.

New Rule: Don't eat anything that's served to you out a window unless you're a seagull. People are acting all shocked that a human finger was found in a bowl of Wendy's chili. Hey, it cost less than a dollar. What did you expect it to contain? Trout?

New Rule: Stop saying that teenage boys who have sex with their hot, blonde teachers are permanently damaged. I have a better description for these kids: lucky bastards.

New Rule: If you need to shave and you still collect baseball cards, you're a dope. If you're a kid, the cards are keepsakes of your idols. If you're a grown man, they're pictures of men.

New Rule: Ladies, leave your eyebrows alone. Here's how much men care about your eyebrows: do you have two of them? Okay, we're done.

New Rule: There's no such thing as flavored water. There's a whole aisle of this crap at the supermarket, water, but without that watery taste. Sorry, but flavored water is called a soft drink. You want flavored water? Pour some scotch over ice and let it melt. That's your flavored water.

New Rule: Stop screwing with old people. Target is introducing a redesigned pill bottle that's square, with a bigger label. And the top is now the bottom. And by the time grandpa figures out how to open it, his ass will be in the morgue. Congratulations, Target, you just solved the Social Security crisis.

New Rule: The more complicated the Starbucks order, the bigger the asshole. If you walk into a Starbucks and order a "decaf grande half-soy, half-low fat, iced vanilla, double-shot, gingerbread cappuccino, extra dry, light ice, with one sweet-n'-Low, and one NutraSweet," ooh, you're a huge asshole.

New Rule: I'm not the cashier! By the time I look up from sliding my card, entering my PIN number, pressing "Enter," verifying the amount, deciding, no, I don't want cash back, and pressing "Enter" aga in, the kid who is supposed to be ringing me up is standing there eating my Almond Joy.

New Rule: Just because your tattoo has Chinese characters in it doesn't make you spiritual. It's right above the crack of your ass. And it translates to "beef with broccoli." The last time you did anything spiritual, you were praying to God you weren't pregnant. You're not spiritual. You're just high.

New Rule: Competitive eating isn't a sport. It's one of the seven deadly sins. ESPN recently televised the U.S. Open of Competitive Eating, because watching those athletes at the poker table was just too damned exciting. What's next, competitive farting? Oh wait. They're already doing that. It's called "The Howard Stern Show."

New Rule: I don't need a bigger mega M&Ms. If I'm extra hungry for M&Ms, I'll go nuts and eat two.

New Rule: If you're going to insist on making movies based on crappy, old television shows, then you have to give everyone in the Cineplex a remote so we can see what's playing on the other screens. Let's remember the reason something was a television show in the first place is that the idea wasn't good enough to be a movie.

New Rule: No more gift registries. You know, it used to be just for weddings. Now it's for babies and new homes and graduations from rehab. Picking out the stuff you want and having other people buy it for you isn't gift giving, it's the white people version of looting.

New Rule: and this one is long overdue: No more bathroom attendants. After I zip up, some guy is offering me a towel and a mint like I just had sex with George Michael. I can't even tell if he's supposed to be there, or just some freak with a fetish. I don't want to be on your web cam, dude. I just want to wash my hands.

New Rule: When I ask how old your toddler is, I don't need to know in months. "27 Months." "He's two," will do just fine. He's not a cheese. And I didn't really care in the first place.

New Rule: If you ever hope to be a credible adult and want a job that pays better than minimum wage, then for God's sake don't pierce or tattoo every available piece of flesh. If so, then plan your future around saying" Do you want fries with that?"

Salad Days Vol.#14: My 1967 Volkswagon Beetle

Bigfoot's Mint 1967 VW Beetle

And he only drove it to work once a week, on Sundays...

It was the best of times; it was the best of times. The summer of Strange Love, 1983. Fresh off the farm, there I was, in Bethesda Md., with the 'ZVI Construction Rolling Thunder Revue and General Contractors Expo'. Old Uncle Frankme and I were doing our usual Saturday morning thing, which was driving around the Chesapeake Bay looking at Boatyards for hidden treasures and irresistable deals. We had just stopped at a general store somewhere on Kent Island and I was in the process of enjoying my first frosty beverage of the day on old Frank's dime. The scenery was splendid, we weren't at work, I had some coin in my pocket and life was good. Frank was in the the process of explaining his plans and schematics for a human catapult, or a small-engine powered centrifuge, or some damn thing, I wasn't listenning really hard. Anyhow,we turn a bend, and from out of nowhere, there she was: out in front of the local Catholic Church sitting by the road, with a For-Sale sign on her, was a totally mint, cream white 1967 VW Beetle. It had the pipe bumpers like I liked, it had a Sun roof, if I'm not mistaken, and the little window in the back . She was a real gem.

Of course, we went inside post-haste, and was immediately introduced to the soon to be former owner, Sr. Augustine O'Reilly, the Priest of the aforementioned church, 'Notre Dame de Miraculous Bargains', as it turned out. After a short conversation, we 'jewed' him down, so to speak, to a paltry sum of $250 bucks. Sure, there were a few little issues with the car, but jeezo, if'n you can't trust a Priest to give you a fair deal, what the hell, right. So anyhow, we stick on some license plate the Padre had sitting around and, unregistered, we head back to the job-site. Back at the friendly confines of the construction site , my initial infatuation had somewhat faded, and some of the chinks in her armour became more apparent. But, still, for $250, a damn fine deal. She became our after work obsession. Every night, along with a case of beer, me and the rest of the guys, Bildo, Animal, Auggie the Blade, Muddah, Frank and I would lovingly patch her up and bring her up to 'register-ability'. With as little putty, a little paint, we made 'er look like what she ain't. A bucket of roofing pitch and some free metal from the job's Tin-Knockers and she was again a rust free marvel of German engineering, just as she had been in the Summer of Love, and just as ready for action.

She drove like a dream and looked like one too. The first night I took her back to the Hotel room, I raced my cousin Bildo, and rear-ended him at a stop light, promptly spilling my beer. She took it like a champ. I rubbed dome dirt on 'er and kept on a going. Her radio only got AM 1500 WTOP News, but after a while I got used to listenning to news, and actually started to enjoy it. The heater didn't work worth a pinch of dog poop either, but hey, it was August in the Nation's capitol, and hotter than a Monkey in a microwave anyway. I wouldn't need a heater for months to come. I was the envy of every van or truck driving nimrod on the job-site and definitely the only tradesman driving anything resembling a 'punch buggy'. Eventually, when the job ended and I took her back home to Maine, I made it there on not much more than $10 bucks worth of gas. Qu'ell Bargain!!

Now, since that time I've spent more than $250 in one shot on Bar tabs alone, and since then I've made $250 stretch farther than a fat women in a Trailer Park's Polyester Bell-Bottoms, but so far I've never, ever, spent $250 more wisely. I only drove her around for about a year or so, and eventually caught her on fire trying to un-freeze her gas lines, totally frying her electrical system. But hey I did end up selling it to my best buddy , Muddah, for ...ah, I don't know how much... I kind of screwed him, but, hey, that's all in the past...RIGHT?

Anyhow, for a year or so there, I felt like a real friggin' beatnick. I even tried to grow a Goatee. I dated girls who didn't shave their legs. I carried a guitar in my back seat, just in case a Hootenany broke out. It was great. Thanks Frank; without your sage advice I might have unwisely passed on such a finacial opportunity, and bought a pick-up instead. To think...

I could have been working.

As a Public Service to all of our impressionable SBL#178 Readers, we demand you check out this informational video clip.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A5VNe9NTOxA